


Ingrid Obeys

by Spiderlily_Writes



Series: Crimson Flower Ingrid [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Affirmation, Claiming, Crimson Flower!Ingrid, Crying, Devotion, Don't read this fic for Felix, F/F, It doesn't go well for him, Loving Sex, Misunderstandings, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt, Self-Worth Issues, cutting off clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27230731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiderlily_Writes/pseuds/Spiderlily_Writes
Summary: After a brush with death leaves Ingrid shaken and questioning her ideals, Edelgard helps her stand strong.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Edelgard von Hresvelg
Series: Crimson Flower Ingrid [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1988083
Comments: 29
Kudos: 84





	Ingrid Obeys

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, this is my last kinktober piece, for [Letterblade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade)'s list, found [here](https://twitter.com/letterblade/status/1307041833810264065).  
> Day 27: Cutting off Clothes  
> This is one of my favorite things I've ever written, and was born from a conversation I had with [@TripleXXXFox](https://twitter.com/TripleXXXFox) I hope you enjoy.

Ingrid stands on the field, cold and alone.

Her spear lies on the grass about twenty feet away, and it might as well be over the sea for all the good it’ll do her. Even if she could get to it, the head was shorn from the end just before she lost her grip, and she has no idea where _that’s_ gone, either. She has no knife, no sword, no shield, no _options_ , and mortal terror has her heart in a vice grip. It twists and squeezes and wrenches, ultimately wringing from her a small, desperate, undignified, and broken whimper. Ingrid can’t speak, much less manage to suck in enough air to scream. Just as well; she doesn’t want any of her friends to see her like this.

Her eyes burn with tears, and she hates herself just a little more for every single one that streaks down her cheeks, each line drawn through the sweat and blood and grime of the battlefield. When they find her corpse— _if_ they find her corpse—they’ll see that she died shamefully. They’ll see that she died crying like a little girl who lost her mother in the marketplace, and not like the knight she always pretended to be. At least she won’t have to see the disappointment on their faces.

She thinks of Dimitri, of how she turned her back on him, and on Faerghus, to pursue what she believed to be justice. She thinks of her family, of her father, and wishes desperately she could tell him goodbye. She thinks of Edelgard, brave and unyielding, a woman who has endured more pain than Ingrid can even imagine, yet still stands defiant with her head ever high. Ingrid feels foolish for believing she could be worthy of service to someone like that, that she could have ever stood beside her.

The least she can do, Ingrid figures as her gaze catches on the cold, hateful steel of Felix’s blade, is accept her death with as much dignity as she has left. At least she can avoid dishonoring Edelgard’s name any further by fleeing like a coward, or scrambling at Felix like a cornered rat.

She goes to one knee, placing both hands on the one that remains up, but she doesn’t look down at the ground. She does not hide from the blow that is to come. Rather, she keeps her gaze fixed on Felix, her head high in a pale imitation of Edelgard’s, and searches his face for some hint of regret, for some hesitation, recognition, _anything_. But no. His eyes are cold, distant, as though he doesn’t even know who she is. Or as though he simply _decided_ to not know, anymore. That makes sense. It probably makes it easier.

Ingrid manages to take a single, slow, shuddering breath to steady herself, and she speaks, her voice low, but filled with resolve.

“Make it quick, Felix. If I ever meant anything to you, just make it quick.” Ingrid doesn’t beg, or plead. The statement is a request, a gesture of respect from one warrior to another, and she sighs in relief as he inclines his head slightly. 

The din of the battle around them fades, replaced by the sound of Ingrid’s blood rushing in her ears. The world seems to stop for the two of them, and Felix takes a step forward, then another, raising his sword to bring down the blow that’ll sever Ingrid’s head from her shoulders. Ingrid, goddess damn her for her cowardice, closes her eyes anyways. She can’t watch the sword come down. She just can’t.

There’s a beat. Two. She hears Felix’s boots crunch on the dry, grassy ground, and there’s a grunt of exertion. Ingrid’s shaking. She might fall over if it doesn’t happen soon.

There’s another sound from her right. Footsteps, rapidly approaching, though not half as rapid as the pounding of Ingrid’s heart. She hears Felix cry out in surprise, a furious growl, and then the sickening, muted crunch of bones breaking. It’s followed by the sound of something soft hitting the ground, and that makes Ingrid’s stomach turn. 

She swallows hard, and opens her eyes.

Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg of Adrestia stands before Ingrid, her back turned to her, the axe _Aymr_ held in both hands. She’s breathing hard; Ingrid can see that much from where she’s kneeling, and her head is turned. She’s looking at something. Ingrid follows her gaze and sees the limp, broken body of Felix Hugo Fraldarius lying on the ground, next to the remains of Ingrid’s spear. Ingrid looks away, quickly, but not quickly enough to keep her breakfast from returning in force.

Ingrid is still shaking, staring at the grass, when Edelgard approaches her. She hears her first, the clanking of her armor announcing her, and a second or two after Edelgard’s plated boots come into view, she feels a strong hand under her arm, hauling her roughly to her feet.

“Stand _up_ , Ingrid,” Edeglard snarls, and Ingrid is taken aback by how furious she sounds. It’s enough to make her pale, and to chase away any relief she felt about being rescued.

“E-Emperor Edelgard, thank you, I-” Ingrid begins, trying to get the words out, but her throat is raw, and it’s difficult. “I don’t-”

As soon as Ingrid is standing, Edelgard lets go of her, ignoring her unsteadiness. “What in the _Goddess’s_ name do you think you’re doing?” she demands, her voice tremulous, her usual composure shaken. She’s holding _Aymr_ in one hand now, and uses the other to jab a finger at Ingrid’s chest for emphasis. 

“What? I...I was—”

“Why, _Ingrid Brandl Galatea_ ,” she begins, and her use of Ingrid’s full name makes her cringe. “...were you kneeling on the ground like a nun in church, waiting _patiently_ for your enemy to kill you?”

Ingrid’s eyes widen. “Felix...he...he’d disarmed me! I didn’t have anything to fight him with!” she exclaims. 

That only seems to make her angrier. “Clearly!” Edelgard fumes. “So why didn’t you _run_? Or try to wrest his weapon from his grasp? Why did you kneel before him like a lamb before slaughter and wait for him to _kill you_? Were you _afraid?_ ”

Tears, once more, spring unbidden to Ingrid’s eyes. “No! I—I wasn’t afraid, I was…” She realizes how painfully _stupid_ it sounds before she says it out loud, but she says it anyways. “I knew he was going to kill me, and I didn’t want to dishonor you by refusing to accept it.”

Edelgard waits a moment before she speaks again. She closes her eyes, takes a breath, and opens them once more, her gaze pure steel. She sounds more even, less angry, but her voice is hard. “Ingrid. I understand that in _Faerghus_ , there is something to be said for ridiculous, stupid, and unnecessary acts of self-sacrifice. For throwing your life away. But there is no place for that here.”

Ingrid remains quiet, her gaze locked onto Edelgard’s soft, lavender eyes as she continues. “Here in my Empire, among my people, there is no such thing as dishonor.” Her voice goes quiet, intimate. As though between lovers. “Your life is not yours to discard so casually, Ingrid, do you understand?”

“Yes, Edelgard,” Ingrid replies, not trusting herself to say any more.

“You are _mine_ , Ingrid. You are one of my people. My family. And I will _not_ have you treating something of mine so carelessly. You will do _anything_ it takes, however dirty, however distasteful, however _dishonorable_ , to return safely to me.”

“Yes, Edelgard.”

“Those fools in Faerghus expected you to die for them. I expect you to _live_ for me. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Edelgard, you do.” Ingrid replies. Edelgard’s words strike her like an arrow in the chest, and she is, once more, finding it difficult to breathe without sobbing. The whiplash of her near-execution, rescue, tongue-lashing, and now, being told that she is valued so highly, is all too much for her to bear, and she knows she’s about to come completely undone. Edelgard’s gaze softens as she sees that, and she suddenly seems a lot less like an Emperor, and a lot more like the loved one that she had so quickly become.

“The enemy has been routed,” Edelgard says, putting her hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. “Go have Linhardt see to your wounds; he and Caspar should be close behind me. We will discuss this more, later. For now, rest. Please.”

Ingrid nods. “Yes, Edelgard.”

Edelgard lets her hand fall gently away, and the sudden absence leaves Ingrid cold. She looks at Felix one last time as she turns to obey. He still hasn’t moved. He’ll never move again. Ingrid walks away and ensures that Edelgard doesn’t see her cry as she wonders if that’s how Glenn looked, too.

❧

The march back to Garreg Mach had been grueling on its own, and neither her grief over what had transpired on the field, nor her anxiety over having upset Edelgard had made it any easier. Indeed, the Emperor hadn’t spoken another word to Ingrid for the entire trip back. 

That, on its own, was reasonable; Edelgard, Byleth, and Hubert had been busy discussing tactics and logistics, and Edelgard knew that Ingrid could deal with her emotions without needing her hand held. Even so, despite the logical reasons behind the lack of contact, Ingrid couldn’t help the anxious, horrible twisting of her stomach as she wondered if she had squandered whatever goodwill she’d built up with Edelgard so far.

When they finally set foot in the monastery, Ingrid heaves a sigh of relief. It’s not exactly home, per se, but it’s the closest thing Ingrid has these days, and it always feels good to be back. Her relief is somewhat short lived, though, as when she moves to return to her bedroom and change, she’s abruptly halted by a hand on her shoulder. It nearly makes her fall to the floor, given the decisiveness with which it halts her forward momentum, and as it is, she stumbles.

“Ingrid,” Edelgard says, her voice mild and unconcerned. “I hope you don’t have plans this evening. There are matters I need to discuss with you.”

Ingrid swallows. “No, I was just going to have a bath and go to bed.” She tries to match Edelgard’s calm confidence, but she knows she’s failing. She doesn’t turn around. “Where should I meet you?”

“My room, upstairs. Feel free to bathe first, though. I expect I will be occupied until the ninth bell or so.” Edelgard pauses, humming thoughtfully. “Do you still have your Faerghus dress uniform? I know you were with them briefly before you joined us here, and I can’t help but wonder if you kept it.”

She feels a stab of panic. She had, indeed, kept the uniform. It was against her better judgement, and out of stupid sentimentality, and now she silently berates herself for it.

Should she lie? Will Edelgard be angry if she says yes? Would Edelgard see that as some kind of weakness? Ingrid chews her lip for a moment before she replies, eventually deciding that honesty is the least dangerous option. “Yes,” she confirms, “I do still have it.”

“I’m not surprised. Wear it to my room this evening.”

Without another word, Edelgard walks past Ingrid and down the path, out of sight. Ingrid stands, flabbergasted, trying to decide why in the Goddess’s name Edelgard would want her to wear her Faerghus dress blues. It doesn’t make any sense, but Ingrid knows better at this point than to question a direct command like that. If there’s one thing that her liege expects, it’s for her orders to be followed, and surely she has a good reason, right?

Ingrid shakes her head and begins the long, solitary walk to the bathhouse, hoping that she can wash away some of her worries along with the grime and dust of the road.

❧

She stands before Edelgard’s bedroom door, freshly and meticulously scrubbed, and wearing the dress uniform that had been issued when she became, officially, a soldier in the Faerghus military. It hadn’t even been that long ago, Ingrid considers, as she tugs at the hem of her jacket. The fabric has been washed, of course, and she had worn it a few times, but it still feels new enough to make her heart ache. She hadn’t even taken the time to properly break it in before turning her back on her former comrades, and that realization _stings_.

Perhaps that’s the intention. She’d considered that possibility, while she was in the bath. Perhaps Edelgard wishes for her to be reminded of Faerghus, and of the duty she shirked. Perhaps, also, the intention is for her to endure the inquisitive and probing stares of some of her comrades as they pass her on their way to bed. Whether it is or not, that’s certainly what’s happening, and her face flushes a little deeper every time someone passes by.

She’s been standing there for about five minutes now, she estimates, and she’s growing increasingly uneasy. There had been no response when she knocked on Edelgard’s door when she first arrived, and each second that passes feels like an eternity and a half, as she is acutely aware of the fact that she is standing outside of Emperor Edelgard’s bedroom in a Faerghus military uniform. Nobody else knows that Edelgard _ordered_ her to do so, certainly, and so she looks, and feels, out of place and ridiculous. 

Is _that_ the message Edelgard is trying to send? That Ingrid is an outsider, and that her actions will be judged all the more severely for it? Is it a reminder that Ingrid does not truly belong here, and is only tolerated because she is useful? It’s driving Ingrid half-mad and making the knot of anxiety in her gut twist twice as hard, three times as painful. But she was ordered to be here at the ninth bell, and here she will remain until she is told otherwise. She’s already disappointed Edelgard enough; she will not continue to do that here.

It’s another five minutes or so before Edelgard reaches the top of the dormitory stairs with Hubert in tow. She’s wearing a deep red and comfortable-looking blouse, tucked into some equally comfortable-looking pants, and her hair is down and flowing free behind her. She probably shed her Imperial regalia shortly after their return to the monastery, and Ingrid doesn’t blame her. It always looks rather uncomfortable, and while Edelgard puts on an air of propriety before the troops, Ingrid has always felt privileged to get to see the Emperor in her more relaxed moments, where she goes physically, and perhaps mentally, unarmored.

Of course, given that Hubert is never far behind her, and that she, as always, has a dagger on the belt at her hip, she’s never _entirely_ without protection. Another reason to respect her; Edelgard has ever been a pragmatist. 

Hubert is speaking quietly to Edelgard about something, hands folded behind his back and bent slightly so that she can hear him without needing to strain, given his height. Edelgard, in turn, appears to be listening intently, but her focus suddenly and obviously shifts as she sees Ingrid standing before her bedroom door. Hubert notices the change immediately, and follows her gaze. Both of them stop walking, and there is a moment of uncomfortable silence shared between Ingrid, the Emperor, and her retainer. Ingrid withers beneath their combined scrutiny, wishing very much that she could become one with the wall.

The first to make a move is Hubert, naturally, who raises one inquisitive eyebrow. “Lady Edelgard,” he says, his voice cool and even as always, and without looking away from Ingrid. “I presume there is a _reason_ that Lady Galatea is standing before your quarters in Faerghus military regalia?”

“Yes, Hubert,” Edelgard says, and her voice is tight, as though _she’s_ the one embarrassed. Ingrid isn’t sure why, given that this was her idea in the first place. “There is a reason.”

He hums to himself. “I take it that my company is no longer required or requested, this evening.”

“That is correct, Hubert. You are dismissed. Thank you for your services, as always.”

The retainer bows deeply to Edelgard, nods at Ingrid, and withdraws smoothly back down the stairs, leaving the two women alone in the hallway. Once his footsteps have faded away entirely, Edelgard frowns. “Ingrid?” she asks. “Why are you standing there like that?”

Ingrid’s caught off guard by the question. It’s as though Edelgard didn’t expect her to be here. “What do you mean? You told me you would be occupied until the ninth bell, and then I was to meet you. You didn’t answer when I knocked, so…” she trails off.

“So?”

“I, uh…” Ingrid begins, trying to find words that don’t make her sound stupid. It doesn’t quite work out. “I thought you meant for me to wait here. I thought…”

“You thought…?” Edelgard prompts her, clearly exasperated. Ingrid feels the tips of her ears grow hot.

“I thought this was part of my...uh...punishment?”

Edelgard frowns, brow furrowed, and it takes a few seconds before comprehension dawns on her. It occurs to Ingrid that Edelgard looks very…tired. Not physically, but emotionally. Hurt, even, and the way she averts her lovely lavender eyes at those words makes Ingrid’s chest ache. The moment passes though, and she replaces her placid mask.

“Ingrid,” Edelgard says, her voice easy, but firm. “Look.”

She reaches out with one hand and turns the knob on her door. It swings open, revealing that it isn’t locked, and hadn’t been in the first place. Ingrid flushes bright red as she realizes the implication. “Oh. I could have just…gone in.”

Edelgard nods once, but scrutinizes Ingrid’s face as though looking for answers. She takes in Ingrid’s obvious nervousness and her uncomfortable shifting from foot to foot, and apparently finds the answer she’s looking for. “You thought I was trying to embarrass you,” Edelgard says. It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and it’s a true one. Ingrid looks away, ironically more embarrassed now than she had been before, when she thought it was Edelgard’s intention.

“I did,” Ingrid admits. Edelgard sighs.

“I would not do that to you, Ingrid. I would not humiliate you in front of your…in front of _our_ comrades. That would be cruel. Have you known me to be cruel?” she asks, and she sounds truly curious.

She considers it for a moment. Edelgard is often stern. Strict. Sometimes, even cold. But she’s never been _cruel_. Goodness, even Ingrid performing weapon drills in the nude, as she did when she first arrived, was something Ingrid had elected to do on her own to show her devotion. Edelgard had made it clear that she would not have pressed her into it if she hadn’t been okay with it. And now, how does Ingrid repay that consideration?

By assuming cruelty of Edelgard. She clenches her jaw. Another fuckup.

“No, Edelgard. You haven’t been cruel. I just…I felt ashamed about the other day, and I thought it would have been appropriate, I assumed that was what you wanted. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

To Ingrid’s surprise, Edelgard reaches out and places a hand on her cheek, tenderly, like a lover might. “My Ingrid. This is clearly an extension of the same problem that brought you here tonight. But we’re going to work through it together.”

Edelgard’s lips quirk up into a knowing, secret smile; the kind of expression that says, ‘I know something you don’t’. She lets her hand fall away, and cocks her head toward her door. “Inside, Ingrid. We have a long night ahead of us.”

Ingrid, of course, obeys.

Edelgard’s bedroom looks much as it had when they were students at Garreg Mach Monastery five years ago. Not, of course, that Ingrid had ever snooped around or anything, but if the door happened to be open and she peeked inside, what was the harm in that?

The biggest difference is that the ever-present stacks of books and papers that have always adorned Edelgard’s dormitory have nearly tripled in height and unsteadiness alike, and Ingrid’s head spins as she tries to consider the amount of effort and organization necessary to keep track of all of Edelgard’s obligations. In addition to coordinating a war effort, she’s also trying to manage the needs of the growing Adrestian Empire from a decentralized location, far from any of the amenities that Enbarr might offer to make the job easier.

Ingrid also knows that the things stored in Edelgard’s room represent less than half of what she has to handle, because she’s also seen the stacks and shelves that have been moved into the offices on the second floor of the monastery, which were _already_ crammed full of Goddess-knows-what.

That Edelgard would have so much to deal with and still make time for Ingrid is…well, it’s humbling to say the least. She turns to face Edelgard as the Emperor steps inside and closes the door behind her delicately, as though she is concerned that enough force might disturb the delicate and precarious balance of her room. In fairness, it might.

“Ingrid,” Edelgard begins, and her voice has that same air of command that it does on the battlefield, one that makes Ingrid perk up immediately and listen extra carefully to ensure thatshe doesn’t miss a word. “To attention, please.”

Without hesitation, Ingrid does as directed. Her arms go to her sides, her back goes straight, her chin goes up, and she stands to her full height, taking care not to lock her legs, for she has no idea how long Edelgard may wish her to remain like this. She learned the importance of keeping her stance somewhat relaxed the hard way the first time she passed out during a uniform inspection.

Edelgard crosses the small space in two paces and circles around Ingrid, slowly, taking in every detail of her dress and posture. She’ll occasionally reach out and tug at a hem, brush away a stray hair, or straighten a seam to sit more naturally; she has a very keen eye for detail, and always has. Ingrid has to force herself to breathe evenly. This isn’t a proper inspection, of course. She can handle those. She’s handled many, many of those, and she can feel that this is something much more intimate.

As Edelgard looks her over, Ingrid can’t help but be reminded of a wolf circling its prey, and she finds that she’s beginning to tremble despite herself. She’s sure Edelgard notices; she would _have_ to notice, as close as she is, but she doesn’t comment. The only noise she makes at all is a soft, evaluative hum when she’s completed her third full circuit.

“Not a stitch out of place,” she remarks, finally, as she comes to a halt in front of Ingrid, arms crossed before her. “You clearly care a great deal about propriety.”

She doesn’t say anything else; she simply looks at Ingrid as if awaiting a response, and Ingrid decides to risk speaking, despite being at attention. “Yes, Edelgard, I do,” she says, her words terse.

Her Emperor tilts her head in a curious gesture. “Why?” she asks, and it’s such a _simple_ question. A thousand answers, all true, spring to her lips, and she speaks the most prominent one without thinking.

“Because it reflects well on me, and on you, and on my comrades,” she says, automatically.

Edelgard shakes her head, frowning. “No, that’s not it. I mean, I have no doubt that you do truly believe that, and it’s not _wrong_ , per se, but I suspect there’s more to it than that. Try again.”

Ingrid grimaces. How is that not enough? It’s true; as true as anything she’s ever said. Indeed, it’s one of the first things she was ever told in training and it’s simply ridiculous that Edelgard shouldn’t accept it. What could she want to hear instead? What other reason _is_ there?

Except…

Beneath the surface, beneath the automatic and conditioned response that Ingrid has always given to questions like that, there rests another. It sits in a dark, quiet part of her, resting like a coiled viper that strikes at her when she approaches. It isn’t something Ingrid thinks about often, or ever, if she can help it, but Edelgard’s bluntness and refusal to accept that surface-level answer pierces straight through Ingrid and drags that coiled-viper truth into the light.

Ingrid swallows hard, and realizes that she’s _crying_. Edelgard sees it too. She takes a breath, and gives the answer that Edelgard knew before she even asked the question.

“Because I have to.”

Edelgard nods at her, and continues to press. “ _Why_ do you have to?”

“Because…” she shudders, the tears falling heavier, in disbelief that she’s giving voice to the fear that’s laid within her for years. “Because you won’t have me if I don’t.”

And she can see Edelgard’s heart breaking, just a little, behind her eyes. “Oh, Ingrid,” she breathes. Her voice is still firm, still that of her liege and Emperor, but there’s a note of pain in it, too.

Ingrid doesn’t falter in her stance. She remains at attention, as ordered, with silent tears drawing icy trails down her cheeks. “Because,” Ingrid continues, the words flowing as though a dam has just broken inside her. “Because I have to do better. I have to _be_ better. I have to prove to you, and to everyone else, that I’m worth their time. And if I can’t fight for you, and _win_ , then _what good am I?_ ”

Ingrid’s final words echo in the room, hanging before her as though burned into the air, an indictment writ plain against herself.

_What good am I?_

They watch each other, for a moment. Neither woman breaks eye contact. Despite her tears, she keeps her gaze fixed on Edelgard. She’s ashamed. She’s _horrified_ , actually, that she’s just said that out loud. It’s a truth she’s always kept in the quiet of her heart, and she just bore it for Edelgard to see like it was nothing. She mumbles an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

Edelgard remains silent for a moment more, then seems to come to a decision, her face set with resolve. She reaches out and tugs at the front of Ingrid’s Faerghan uniform jacket, lightly, never looking away as she does it.

“This uniform. Do you know why I wanted you to wear it to come see me, this evening?” she asks. Ingrid shakes her head.

“I…thought I did. I thought it was a way to remind me that I’m an outsider here.”

“And now?”

“Now I know you wouldn’t intend something like that. So no, I don’t know why,” Ingrid says, her voice more even than before, but still tremulous. Her curiosity is just about killing her.

Edelgard chuckles, drily. “I’m glad you know that _now_ at least.” She looks Ingrid up and down again with calculating eyes, taking in her boots, her trousers, her shirt, and her jacket, the components of her old uniform, before she continues. “I wanted you to wear it, because I have a point I want to make.”

She gestures broadly at Ingrid, from her neck down to her feet. “You see yourself this way, Ingrid. In this uniform, as a soldier. That’s what you see in the mirror when you look at yourself, even when you’re not wearing it. I would like to think I know you well enough to make that assertion. Do you agree?”

Ingrid nods. Of course. What else _is_ there?

“And based on what you told me a moment ago, I think I could also conclude that you only feel like you’re worth something when other people see you like that, too. ” Edelgard adds, sounding more certain now. “It’s foolishness. But I understand why you feel that way. You’ve spent your life being valued only for what you can give to others.”

Her words, though they contain no malice, sting like salt in an open wound.

Ingrid nods again, biting her lip to stifle a low sob. It’s one thing to reveal those deep, painful truths in a moment of emotional weakness, but it’s quite another to hear them aloud from someone else. She doesn’t know how much longer she can keep herself together like this, but she knows she has to try. She steels her nerves, sets her jaw.

“Would you like to know how I see you?” Edelgard nearly whispers. “Would you like to know what _I_ see when I look at you?”

For a third time, Ingrid nods. She speaks reverently, desperately, as though in prayer.

“Please, Edelgard.”

With one hand, quickly and deliberately, Edelgard reaches down to the dagger belted to her hip. It’s a testament to Ingrid’s self-control and trust for her Emperor that she doesn’t even flinch, but she certainly has to fight back the impulse. She tenses slightly, but remains as patient and calm as she can, even though her heart feels like it’s going to beat out of her chest.

The whisper of a blade being taken from its sheath cuts through the silence of the room as surely as the knife cuts the air, and Edelgard holds the weapon with a relaxed grip that belies her experience. She raises it to the top of Ingrid’s jacket, placing the razor-sharp point of the blade right against the collar.

Ingrid swallows hard, the motion of her throat enough to let her feel the pressure Edelgard is exerting on the cloth at her neck. Somewhere, deep inside, there’s a voice claiming that she’s in danger, that Edelgard is going to hurt her, that she needs to move, to flee, hide, fight, _anything._ But she ignores that voice, because if there’s one person in the world that she trusts, it’s Edelgard von Hresvelg.

Edelgard turns the blade slightly, so the edge is perpendicular to the ground. She reaches up with her free hand, slipping two fingers beneath Ingrid’s collar and pulling it, just barely, away from her skin. Then, without further ado, Edelgard slides the knife into the jacket and tugs downward.

As she feels the dagger tug against the fabric, Ingrid gasps, surprised, but manages to keep her composure enough to stay still. That’s a good thing, too, and she suspects that Edelgard is trusting her to do so, because she’s in awe of how sharp Edelgard’s dagger is. The edge is more finely honed than any weapon Ingrid has ever laid eyes on, and it slices through the fabric of her uniform jacket with as much ease as it would slice through a couple of sheets of parchment.

The cut goes from the top of the deep blue jacket all the way to the bottom, slicing it open evenly between the two columns of buttons that had previously fastened it closed. No longer secured, the fabric droops on Ingrid unevenly. Edelgard doesn’t stop there, though. She flips the knife around, holding it in a reverse grip, and reaches up under the jacket to place her hands on either side of Ingrid’s collarbone.

She can feel the warmth of Edelgard’s palms, as well as the hardness of the dagger’s handle pressed against her, and she blushes at the intimacy of the gesture. She’s thankful Edelgard is no longer looking at her face; rather, she’s looking at Ingrid’s neck, where her skin disappears under the fabric of her uniform’s undershirt, as though identifying her next target.

Edelgard’s hands move out, back, and down, brushing the jacket off of her and dropping it to the floor, the fabric making a heavy _whumph_ as it lands. Ingrid trembles slightly, and Edelgard can surely feel it through the hands that linger on her shoulders.

This uniform is one of the last connections she has to Faerghus. Aside from her spear, some trinkets, and a few articles of clothing that she brought with her, none of which are emblazoned with the Holy Kingdom’s device, it is the _only_ connection she has to Faerghus. There’s a low, sinking feeling in her chest as the jacket hits the floor, and she realizes what Edelgard is planning to do.

She feels her eyes begin to water yet again, and she curses herself silently for her weakness, trying to push the tears away. Is she going to miss this uniform? Is she _really_? Did she bring it with her as a sentimental keepsake, or a reminder of her betrayal; of what she’d done by turning her back on the Kingdom?

Are the pieces of this uniform a fond memory, or are they manacles, irons from which she still hasn’t broken free?

“Ingrid?” Edelgard asks, softly. “Are you well?”

She swallows a lump in her throat and answers. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Edelgard looks up at her for a moment, then lets her hands fall down, sliding over Ingrid’s chest, over her breasts, as they do. Ingrid shivers again. Edelgard has always been good to her, always fair, and just, but…she has never touched her like this. They have embraced, certainly, but this is…different. She’s nervous, certainly, but the contact is thrilling.

Edelgard turns her dagger once more, holding it in a forward grip again, and takes the tip of it to the collar of Ingrid’s undershirt. She slices downward once more, being very careful not to nick Ingrid’s skin, but her stroke is so practiced, so _precise_ , that while Ingrid feels just the barest hint of cold steel against her flesh, Edelgard doesn’t cut her at all.

The shirt, shorn quickly away, is tugged off by Edelgard even faster than the jacket, and Ingrid’s torso is left bare, but for a smattering of battle scars and the cloth binding that keeps her breasts out of the way while in uniform. The tip of the dagger slides under the cloth and pulls outward, back toward Edelgard, and in seconds, the bindings fall to the floor with the rest as Edelgard meets her eye.

Ingrid gasps as her whole upper body is exposed to the cool air of Edelgard’s bedroom, fighting the urge to cover her chest with her arms. Edelgard still hasn’t told her to be at ease, and so she will remain as she is. Edelgard must have seen the twitch of Ingrid’s arms out of the corner of her eye, because she nods in approval, seemingly appreciating Ingrid’s dedication to her orders.

Edelgard takes a step back, turns the dagger into a reverse grip once more, and places it flush against Ingrid’s left hip, the sudden shock of cold from the metal nearly making her jump out of her skin. The blade slides down beneath the waist of Ingrid’s trousers, and with a casual flick of Edelgard’s wrist, the waistband is broken and the trousers fall to the floor, caught on the tops of her boots, revealing Ingrid’s plain smallclothes. She reddens even more, though she supposes she shouldn’t be embarrassed, given what Edelgard has seen of her already.

To her surprise, Edelgard, Emperor of Adrestia, _kneels_ before Ingrid on the floor. She does it so casually, so easily, as though she cares nothing for the gravity of such a gesture, and undoes the ties on Ingrid’s boots. Once they’re unlaced, she looks up at Ingrid, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that her face is level with the apex of Ingrid’s thighs, and says, “Lift your leg.”

Ingrid does as asked, and Edelgard tugs off her boot and casts it aside, repeating the process with the other. Once they’re gone, she reaches up, still kneeling, to the tops of Ingrid’s stockings. They’re thick wool, to help Faerghus knights cope with the chill that suffuses their homeland, and reach all the way up her calves.

The dagger lightly, lovingly kisses the skin of Ingrid’s calf, before turning down and slicing through her stocking as well. The other follows shortly after, and Edelgard stands up, steady and graceful, to face Ingrid at eye level once more.

Finally, looking Ingrid full in the eyes yet again, as though defying her to move, Edelgard slips the dagger in between the skin of Ingrid’s upper thigh and the waist of her smallclothes. There’s a brief pause, as though Edelgard is intentionally letting the tension between them build, then she flicks her wrist for one final time and severs the thin cloth, letting the smallclothes fall away as well. Edelgard slides the dagger gently, carefully back into its sheath.

And now, Ingrid stands completely bare before her Emperor once again.

She’s breathing hard, now, from a combination of nervousness and embarrassment, but there’s something else she can feel as well. It starts in her core, and rolls out from there like an ocean wave, unstoppable, powerful, and beautiful all at once.

It’s relief. It’s freedom. It’s _release_.

And then she falls.

Her body goes limp, suddenly, like a marionette with cut strings. Her knees buckle, and she realizes it far too late to keep herself stable, but it doesn’t matter, because Edelgard is _there_. Without missing a single beat, her Emperor reaches out and catches her in her arms, pulls her close into a firm, protective embrace. Ingrid simply lets her; though she doesn’t really have any other options.

Once the moment of weakness passes, and she gets her feet solidly under her, Edelgard murmurs in her ear.

“Are you okay, Ingrid?”

Ingrid pauses. “I can stand,” she says, but that’s not the same thing, and they both know it. Still, Edelgard releases her and steps back. Ingrid moves to go to attention once more, but Edelgard holds up a hand to stop her.

“At ease,” she says, and Ingrid nods, relaxing her stance. The Emperor walks around her again, doing one complete circle, then another, than a third. She reaches out from time to time, her fingers gliding over Ingrid’s bare skin in a way that is undeniably intimate and erotic, and it sets her skin on fire. She traces Ingrid’s scars, on her back, her front, her sides, ghosting her digits across Ingrid’s flesh with pure electricity in their tips.

She comes to a stop in front of Ingrid, who is presently a trembling, emotionally compromised, and thoroughly aroused mess. Edelgard reaches out once more, placing her hand under Ingrid’s chin and cupping her jaw gently, yet firmly. “Do you understand?” Edelgard asks.

“I…I think so,” Ingrid says, uncertain, unsteady, and made weak by the contact. Edelgard’s thumb brushes over her cheek fondly.

“This is how I see you, Ser Ingrid Brandl Galatea. This is what I want from you. This is what makes you worthwhile to me.” Her hand slides down Ingrid’s neck, over her chest, down to her hip, and stays there. The other goes to the opposite side, and she steps forward once more.

“You, Ingrid,” she says, “are enough. As you are. As you were. As you will be. You don’t have to prove yourself. You don’t have to be better than everyone else. You don’t have to earn your place with me. Do you understand?”

Ingrid nods, once, curt. She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t know if she could speak, right now. The tears in her eyes well up and spill over, and she’s truly crying now, her body shaking with quiet sobs. Edelgard seems to pay it no mind.

“I don’t ever want you to doubt your place again, do you understand? You, and I, and the rest of our friends are going to see a new dawn over Fodlan, and we’re going to see it together. That is my ambition, and I will accept nothing less.” To Ingrid’s surprise, she sees Edelgard’s eyes begin to water as well.

“Edelgard, I—” she begins, but Edelgard isn’t finished.

“Therefore,” she says, enunciating the syllables of the word with force and certainty that banish any thoughts of argument. “You will come back to me. Every time. No matter what. I do not care what you have to do, but you will come back. I’ve lost…” Edelgard’s voice breaks slightly, but she covers it with a cough. “I’ve lost so, _so_ many people I love. And I will not abide losing one more. Do you understand, Ingrid?”

Ingrid finally does.

“Yes, Edelgard,” she manages to breathe. “I understand.”

In response, Edelgard leans in and kisses Ingrid, warmly, passionately, and full of love and Ingrid returns it just as well. The Emperor tastes of sugar and bergamot, she notes, and though she knows that her tears probably dampen Edelgard’s cheeks, she can’t truly bring herself to care as she melts into Edelgard’s arms.

Ingrid decides to be bold, slipping her arms beneath Edelgard’s and around her sides, laying her palms flat on the Emperor’s back, keeping her close, gripping tight, as though she’s afraid Edelgard might float away if she doesn’t. The other woman doesn’t protest. In fact, she slips her tongue between Ingrid’s lips and deepens their kiss, embracing her with all the fury and passion that makes the Flame Emperor who she is.

Edelgard spins them around, putting Ingrid’s back to her bed, and lowers her down gently, letting go of her hips and breaking their kiss. Ingrid takes the moment to catch her breath. It’s a relief to be able to lie down, but Edelgard clearly has no intentions of letting her relax there for long. She leaves one foot on the floor and kneels down with the other, half on the bed, half off of it, and puts her right arm down by Ingrid’s head for support.

She leans down once more, pressing her lips to Ingrid’s neck and kissing her there, too, then sucks at the skin hard enough to make Ingrid hiss in pain. She knows it’ll leave a mark, but she’s sure that’s what Edelgard intends, anyways.

“You’re _mine_ , Ingrid, do you understand?” Edelgard breathes against her skin, and her hot breath cascades over Ingrid’s neck like a sultry summer breeze. “You were mine as soon as you came to me, and I will never, _ever_ leave one of mine behind.”

Ingrid feels as though she’s caught in a whirlwind. Her emotions have yet to entirely catch up to her body, but she’s able to muster the presence of mind to give Edelgard a fervent, enthusiastic nod of her head. “Yes. Yes, Edelgard.”

“ _Say it_ , Ingrid,” Edelgard demands, and it occurs to Ingrid that perhaps the Emperor needs to hear the words as much as Ingrid needs to say them. Perhaps she needs to know, for certain, that Ingrid will not allow herself to falter again.

“I’m yours, Edelgard,” she responds, and she feels her whole body go hot. “I’m yours, and I will _always_ come home to you. I promise.”

She can feel Edelgard smile against her, even if she can’t see it. “Good girl.”

The hand Edelgard isn’t using to support herself dances up Ingrid’s thigh and makes her breath catch. “You’ve done a hard thing tonight. I know this wasn’t easy for you, and I am so, _so_ proud of you for it. Maybe I should reward you for your dedication.”

The suggestion alone is enough to make Ingrid squirm, and Edelgard laughs, openmouthed and honest. It sounds so _joyful_ , and it’s enough to make Ingrid’s heart skip a beat. That hand slides up a little further up, then down to the side, dipping between her thighs and teasing through the slickness that had begun to build ever since Edelgard first began to run her hands along her body. “Edelgard, please,” she groans, already nearly overwhelmed with everything that’s happened that night. “Please, I would be honored.”

“You would be—” Edelgard breaks off and laughs again, harder. Ingrid heads up again. “Oh, Ingrid, only _you_ could make that sound so sincere with a woman’s hand between your legs. But since you would be honored…”

She lets her fingers glide through Ingrid’s folds, and Ingrid parts her thighs just a bit more, instinctively, allowing Edelgard more space. The Emperor doesn’t hesitate to make use of it, cupping her hand around Ingrid and pressing with her palm in just the right way to wring a little mewl from Ingrid. She grips the back of Edelgard’s shirt tighter, her nails digging into the woman’s back even through the fabric.

“Edelgard, please, _please_ don’t tease me. Not tonight,” Ingrid implores, and Edelgard, lovely, gentle, benevolent Emperor that she is, decides to have mercy on her. She moves that hand up ever so slightly and plunges two fingers into Ingrid, moving her head up and locking her lips against the knight’s to muffle the broken cry that escapes her.

Ingrid kisses her back once more, greedier this time, utterly shameless, taking every last bit of Edelgard that she can get as the woman begins to work her over, steadily, with her hand. She moves her hips in time with Edelgard’s ministrations, bucking forward as much as she can, groaning into Edelgard’s mouth every time she manages to twist her hand and hit Ingrid’s clit.

Edelgard, apparently quite experienced at this, hooks her fingers inside Ingrid and sends a sudden jolt of pleasure through her. Once Edelgard finds a rhythm and Ingrid’s cries have been replaced with a steady, growing crescendo of pants and gasps, she pulls her lips away just enough to speak, nose to nose.

“My loyal knight,” Edelgard coos, adoration oozing from every word, and Ingrid can feel the phrase on her own lips. If it were anyone else, Ingrid would think they were teasing her, but from Edelgard, she knows it’s sincere. “Ingrid, I’m so proud of you, and I’m so glad you’re here with me.”

“Th-thank you, Edelgard,” Ingrid replies, in between groans. “Thank you so much.” There are still tears in Ingrid’s eyes, but they’re tears borne of bliss, not of pain, and she swears she can _feel_ the difference.

“Say it again,” the Emperor demands, driving deeper into Ingrid to punctuate her words and drawing another impassioned cry from Ingrid.

It takes a moment for Ingrid to realize what Edelgard is after, but she catches on eventually. “I’m yours,” she breathes, the words falling from her lips in a torrent. “I’m yours, and I’m so, so sorry for putting myself in danger, and I should have known better, and it’ll never happen again, and I…I…” she trails off, unable to form any more coherent words as Edelgard speeds up. She’s driving Ingrid closer to the edge, and she knows it. “P-please, _please_ don’t stop, Edelgard, _please_ ,” she begs.

Her Emperor acquiesces. “Come for me, my Ingrid. _Now_.”

As before, as always, Ingrid obeys. With one, two, _three_ more strokes, Edelgard pushes Ingrid up and over her peak. She feels her body tense, and stars explode before her eyes as she squeezes them shut in the throes of ecstasy. Ingrid comes so hard she feels _dizzy_ , and if she weren’t laying down, she’d almost certainly have fallen. She’s not entirely sure what sounds she makes as she comes, but she’s pretty sure that Edelgard’s name is one of them, along with half-muddled declarations of possession and submission.

When the waves of pleasure recede from her, after Edelgard slowly, tenderly withdraws her hand from between Ingrid’s legs, the two of them simply watch each other. There’s a new understanding between them, and despite Ingrid feeling exhausted in _every_ sense of the word, she manages to lean up enough to peck Edelgard on the lips. Her Emperor smiles down at her, and in that smile, she feels the last of a weight that she’s carried for an immeasurably long time melt off of her shoulders.

“Stay with me, Ingrid. Please,” Edelgard murmurs.

“Is that an order?” Ingrid teases, and Edelgard replies with solemnity and sincerity that’s only half-affected.

“Yes, it is.”

As always, Ingrid obeys.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I made myself cry writing it honestly, I love both of these characters so much. Thanks, as always, to the amazing [tansybells](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/tansybells/pseuds/tansybells) for being my beta-reader. If you'd like to come affirm each other's worth, find me on twitter [@spiderlilywrite](https://twitter.com/spiderlilywrite).


End file.
